Circular Breathing
by allthingsholy
Summary: It's about rhythm. Cuddyfic.


Title: Circular Breathing  
Author: allthingsholy  
Rating: PG  
Pairing: Cuddy  
Email: allthingsholy(at)yahoo(dot)com; or brainwaves work on occasion  
Disclaimer: I don't own them, though I'd kind of like Cuddy to be my friend.  
Summary: It's about rhythm.  
A/N: Many, many beta thanks for lulabo, who is the best. Written for the lj housefic50 challenge community, taken from the prompt: Beginnings

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His strides are smooth, the rise of his chest regular. His shoulders are square and solid, his pace steady. One long leg in front of the other, his arms pump evenly as he runs further and further, leaving something behind. His face is blank, but his eyes are joyous.

The wind is sharp against her face, and her breathing is heavy. She's three miles in when he passes her, but one foot in front of the other, she increases her pace, tries to catch up. He's pulling away, moving forward, and she won't let him. As she comes to a curve in the track, she starts a sprint, pulls up almost even. His body tenses a moment before he lengthens his stride. Speeding up, she breathes in, breathes out.

She enjoys the regularity of motion, the science in the constant movement of her legs, her arms. The extension of the medial collateral ligament in the tibio-femoral joint along the longitudinal axis. They're six miles in when he ups his pace again; she narrows the gap between them. Hands relaxed, chin up, shoulders straight. Seven miles, eight. The ischiofemoral ligament displays flexion motion vertically at the iliofemoral joint. It's about rhythm.

Three laps later, she's still behind him but fading steadily despite her best efforts. He shows no signs of slowing, one foot still surely in front of the other over and over again, so she slows, finally stops. Doubled over to catch her breath, she hears his footsteps continue on.

She moves off the track, into the grass. She stretches slowly, the gastrocnemius, the sartorius, the vastus medialis, all pulled and aching. She smiles.

"It's a good thing my back side is my best side, since it's really all you ever got to see." The voice behind her is unexpectedly quiet, smooth and low. The arrogance fused in—and present in spades—is natural, but not mean-spirited. She doesn't turn around.

"I'm showing you a pretty good view of mine right now. It's only fair." He walks forward, stops beside her. She raises her head, lifts a hand to shield her eyes.

He's backlit—and beautiful, she can tell. Hair a little too shaggy and shoulders a little too broad, he wipes the back of his hand against his forehead, wipes the sweat on his shirt. She can't make out his features—the sun's brightest this time of day—but she can feel the twist of his lips into a satisfied smile, the narrowing of his eyes as he studies her, hands on his hips. She lifts herself to her feet.

He's tall, which is the first thing she notices, taller than her by at least six inches. "Michigan" is scrawled in navy letters across his chest, and the shirt is worn at the seams. He's older than her by a few years at least, a five o' clock shadow on his face even though it's no later than noon. She gives him a look—squints her eyes against the sun, against his stare—before turning around and walking toward the picnic table for her things.

She feels more than hears him behind her, his eyes on her ass, if she's any judge of character. She stops at the table, pops the top on her water bottle. The water is cold, and she drinks deep. She runs a towel over her face, wipes the sweat from her hairline and under her eyes. Her breathing has settled.

He takes a seat opposite her, folds his arms atop the wood. "So, come here often?" He's smiling as he says it, his towel draped across the back of his neck. There's a surety in his speech, in the tilt of his head as he takes in the shape of her, the cling of her shirt to her chest and the bend of her neck as she shakes out her hair. She decides not to like him.

"Do you harass all the other runners?" She tries for sharpness, for annoyance, but it comes out coy and flirtatious. She pulls her hair away from her face, looks over his head at the baseball field behind him. It's fall and the weeds are closing in. She meets his eyes.

"I only harass the ones who use me as a pace-setter. Usually gets them to stop." He runs his fingers along the grain of the wood, the lift of his chin as he looks at her playful, defiant. He's still smiling.

"Won't happen again," she says, pulling on her sweatshirt. She gathers her things in her arms, walks toward campus.

"Your breathing sucks." He doesn't raise his voice when he calls out behind her, keeps his tone light. She looks over her shoulder, sees him stand and walk toward her. He grabs his water bottle off the end of the picnic table, turns it in his hands. "Really, it's terrible." He's still grinning, lips thin and up-turned.

"How do you even—"

"I was watching you. For the minute or so you were in front of me." His eyes never leave hers, and it's unnerving, the constancy of his gaze. She looks away.

"Anyway, yeah. Work on your breathing." She turns back and sees him walking toward the parking lot. He turns around, walks backwards as he says, "It's about rhythm."

She watches him walk away a moment before she turns back toward campus, sun almost directly overhead. Despite herself, she grins, breathes in. Breathes out.


End file.
